


Freedom's Just Another Word

by shealynn88



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Blood Kink, Demon Dean Winchester, Hallucinations, Long-Term Imprisonment, M/M, More or less happy ending, Prisoner Castiel, Psychological Manipulation, Solitary Confinement, Stockholm Syndrome, Torture with knives, captor Dean, character exploration with knives, long-term bondage, more character exploration than gore, most canon characters have died of old age
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-14
Updated: 2019-09-11
Packaged: 2020-10-13 15:34:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20584847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shealynn88/pseuds/shealynn88
Summary: Dean has been a demon for a long time, and he’s good at what he does.  But things change when Dean captures an angel and keeps him warded and chained, secret from the denizens of Heaven and Hell.Castiel has always tried to be a good soldier, but he’s never managed to stay in Michael’s good graces for long.  After a while, it’s hard to see much difference between Michael’s rule and Dean’s.





	1. Feeling Good is Easy

**Author's Note:**

> I could not have completed this without my talented friend and beta, [interstitial](https://archiveofourown.org/users/interstitial), who was instrumental in keeping what shreds of sanity I had, intact. When neither interstitial or I could see straight, [AnOddSock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnOddSock/pseuds/AnOddSock) and [All-or-nothing-baby](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BundleOfSoy/pseuds/all-or-nothing-baby) both stepped in to help with a final look over. 
> 
> A huge shout out goes to the talented and skilled artist I was paired with for this, [synk-art](https://www.tumblr.com/dashboard/blog/synk-art). They were an absolute joy to work with and I could literally cry about the absolutely stunning [art piece](https://www.tumblr.com/dashboard/blog/synk-art/187680741179) they created, which you can also find embedded at the end of chapter two.

**Dean: July, 1923**

Dean folds his arms against the diner countertop and chews his lip absently as he takes in the locals around him. This is the preparation phase, a time for listening - he doesn’t want to fuck up the vernacular or say something real offensive right away. Wants to get a feel for it. 

It’s been a while since he’s worked in California, but it’s exactly how he remembers - still hot and dry as a bone. Feels a bit like home, actually - minus the darkness and screaming.

Dean’s been at this almost a century, now. He may not know the daily intricacies of Berkeley _right now_, but he does know this - the human core doesn’t change. The basic, driving forces. They’re always a little bit cocky, a little bit afraid, a little bit horny.

Even this one, he suspects, glancing over at the corner table. He’s young, good looking, humble. There’s something exotic about his face, like his family came in on a boat not too long ago. He’s drinking coffee and smiling at the waitress in a pious, kind way as she tops up his mug. It’s nothing like the once-over most of the patrons offer.

This guy, Jimmy Novak, would probably chalk the piety up to the collar and cassock and the vows he took, but Dean’s met his share of holy men, and most of them don’t bother. 

Dean smiles. This guy might actually be a challenge. 

Demons are typically sent to tempt the wicked. Get them with a deal - offer a shortcut to some coveted reward, get a signature. It was how they’d caught Dean, lifetimes ago - given him a deal for his brother’s soul.

Not too many demons are built for the subtlety required here, though - taking the time to wear down a soul that isn’t halfway to darkness already. But when there’s a call for it, Dean’s the one Alastair sends. He may claim Dean learned everything from him, but Dean’s better at this than any of them. He’s brought his own natural flair, and it’s been effective enough to get him a Knighthood. He mattered, then, when Cain was in the mix. Not so much, now.

Maybe this one’ll be the big one for him, get him some attention higher up the food chain - he’s wanted to give Lucifer a piece of his mind for a while. This Novak guy seems important, maybe he’s on the short list upstairs - destined for sainthood or something. Dean doesn’t know, it’s above his pay grade.

Dean sips his coffee and refocuses. Even with the lack of recognition and trust, he _likes_ these jobs. While most demons shy away from humanity, Dean revels in it. He _gets_ it. He finds it a little tiring, sure - human guilt is unbelievable, and wading through it can be a real test to his patience. But it’s worth it. Worth it when he gets underneath those window dressings of virtue and reaches the good stuff inside. Worth it again when they get their final reward on his table downstairs and he gets to show them how thin that veneer really is - what they’re really capable of. 

Every. Single. One. 

Dean sits at the bar for a bit, accepts a refill of coffee with a nod and a smile and stifles a wink until he can get a good sense of the vibe, here. He listens to the people around him. Guys complaining about work, family, the bars closing down. Young girls talking about cutting their hair and school starting up. They wear dresses shorter than Dean’s used to, and he enjoys the view as he lets the new world soak in.

Finally he’s ready. Has his angle, his persona. He stands slowly, coffee in hand, and moves to the back. “Father,” he says, quiet and carefully uncertain. “This seat taken?”

The Father looks up at him from a newspaper, surprised. “Oh, hello, there! Please, do sit.”

“Thank you, thank you.” Dean sits carefully, a little neater than his typical sprawl. Best behavior. For now. “I, ah, hope you don’t mind. I’m pretty far from home, thought it would be nice to get to know someone here.”

“Well, I’m glad you found me. I’m always glad to meet our new crop. Are you a student?” the Father asks, sounding sincere. He folds his paper up to focus on Dean, taking a sip of coffee.

Dean leans back. This is perfect. “Yeah, just got here from Kansas. It feels an awful long way away. I’d really appreciate some time if you have it, I’d love to know what’s good in the city. Where to go to meet people, that sort of thing.”

“Yes, yes! Well…” The Father’s off like a shot, letting Dean know all the good spots - if he has a car, needs food, if he wants to dance, if he needs help in the engineering courses he just made up on the spot.

“Father, you’ve been a real help. Thank you. I really don’t know what I’d have done without you.”

“Please, call me Jimmy.” He grasps Dean’s hand with both of his. “Truly, it was my pleasure.”

Dean grins and holds the Father's gaze until he glances away. 

_His pleasure._ Dean’s counting on it.

* * *

He sees the Father at the cafe again. Sits with him and drinks coffee. Makes him laugh and laughs in return, that hearty laugh humans use to bond. Leans a little close. Touches frequently, but nothing untoward, just a bit more often than strictly necessary. And he watches the response, the way Jimmy turns his head and maybe flushes at the attention. 

Dean has thought it might take another sit down at the cafe to set the stage properly, but the Father’s goodbye decides him - a quick, chaste peck on the cheek and those hands, reluctant to release him. Dean doesn’t need another sit down. Father Jimmy is nearly ripe for the picking.

* * *

**Dean: August, 1923**

Dean kneels carefully. Confession is a bit of a risk - half the trinkets in the building will burn him, just brushing past. There’s nothing in the confessional that’s an immediate problem, anyway, and it had been easy enough to avoid the font of holy water as he entered. But the payoff is promising, and he enjoys the intimacy of it. The sacrilege.

“Forgive me Father, for I have sinned,” he says softly. “It’s been four weeks since my last confession.”

He’s done his research, and there’s no required response at this point, but he wants to gauge it. If the Father knows who he is. If he’s glad to see him.

Father Jimmy responds kindly. As always. “My son, speak freely, and my ears will be as the ears of the Lord.”

“Thank you, Father. I…” This is a line he has to tread carefully. His role is an upright, promising college student - old enough to know what he wants, devout enough to be of interest, attractive enough to be assured of a certain kind of attention. But he needs to be sure he isn’t too forward, that he doesn’t put the Father on the defensive. “I met someone recently. Someone real good and kind. They...this person. They really helped me out when I didn’t have anyone else and I...I’ve had impure thoughts. No excuse for it, I know. This person, they’re just real generous. I’ve never met anyone like that before. Someone who cared about me like that. No expectation. I don’t know...I think...it’s wrong, isn’t it? God’s not a fan of that kinda thing.”

It’s not supposed to be a conversation, but Dean takes the chance that the Father will want to be supportive. He seems the type, and it’s the best way Dean’s found of reeling them in - make them think they’re helping, and let them fall right into the pit they’re working to dig him out of. 

Humans. The same across the decades.

“God has no qualms about emotion and attachment, my son. Caring about people is His work, after all. It’s normal for you to be grateful. If this person is someone you wish to pursue, then He has ways to woo a woman that do not go against his Word. Say three Hail Mary’s and strike these impure thoughts from your mind. All will be forgiven.”

Dean waits to hear the Father’s robes shift before he speaks again. Softly. He wants the Father to lean in to hear him. Wants it to feel intimate. “It’s...yes, thank you, Father. You see, though...it’s a man. Who’s been good to me. I’m having thoughts...about a man. So, you know. I might need more than a Hail Mary.”

Hook baited.

Intake of breath on the other side, small, but enough to hear. _Perfect._

“I see. The challenges of the flesh can cause us pain, my son. But God does not give us challenges we cannot overcome. You will be forgiven if you are truly repentant.”

“I don’t want to lose my friend,” Dean says - again, so quiet.

The Father is also quiet. “The Lord is not unkind. Say three Hail Marys and go in peace.”

“Thank you, Father.”

* * *

Dean meets the Father again at the diner a few days later, sits down and avoids eye contact. “How’s it going, Jimmy? Anything exciting going on today?”

He glances over and the priest smiles at him softly. “I’m always excited to be here. It’s a beautiful city.”

Dean looks out the window. “I like how you see the world,” he says, watching the Father out of the corner of his eye. Jimmy’s expression goes a little tight before the smile returns. Dean’s fairly certain it’s related to Jimmy’s feelings and not discomfort with Dean’s confession. Or at least, not _solely_ Dean’s confession. 

“How are classes going?” Jimmy asks, and the conversation moves on easily.

The bait has been taken, and now it’s just a matter of reeling him in slowly. Letting out the slack when he swims away, and then taking it up when he moves a bit closer. This is the fun part, the battle between what’s good in Jimmy and what’s base. What’s instinct. It becomes clear through the conversation, as Jimmy allows lingering touches and then returns them, that this was, indeed, the way to the Father’s soul. Just as Dean had predicted.

He presses a kiss to Jimmy’s cheek when they part ways. “I could use your help, I think,” he says quietly. “I don’t go to church often. There are some...things about me that probably don’t sit quite right with the Lord. Do you think you could meet with me sometime? Alone? So we could...talk?”

He meets Jimmy’s eyes for the first time. Up close, they’re a startling blue. He knows the priest is probably taking in his green eyes - one of his best features, Alistair likes to taunt. Says he’s got it easy up here, tempting, because this body was made for sin.

Let it never be said that Dean doesn’t use what the good Lord gave him. He nearly grins at the thought, but stifles it. They’re having a moment, here.

“Why don’t you come by the church on Sunday. You could come to Mass and we could meet privately afterward?”

Dean looks away, lowering his eyes in something that should look like shame. “I’m not sure I’m able to come to Mass, Father - Jimmy. Maybe...after we talk?”

Jimmy touches his shoulder. “Of course.”


	2. Do the Best I Can

**Castiel: September, 1923**

“Michael.” Castiel executes a sweeping bow and goes to his knees. His brother appreciates the full performance. Naomi sits just behind Michael, to his right. 

The significance is not lost on him. “Naomi,” he nods, providing his best show of deference.

“Rise, Castiel. How are you, brother?” Michael’s voice is musical - fit for an Archangel. 

He stands but keeps his eyes carefully downcast. “Well, thank you. Our last charge was successful, we have captured the lost horn and Uriel has stored it away as you requested.”

“That is good work, Castiel.” Michael’s voice turns soft, with the barest hint of reproach. Castiel stiffens as he continues. “Brother. Naomi has told me that you have questions. After all this time, you still have questions and doubts. Is that true?” 

Castiel swallows. He'd thought the questions were reasonable. A garrison leader, trying to understand his Father's Plan in order to better execute it. Naomi had made it painfully clear that Castiel was not qualified to ask such things. “Naomi has explained my place to me, Michael. I will do whatever you require.”

“Of course you will, Castiel. You understand, I have to take all my servants’ concerns into consideration. Only the most faithful can be trusted with a garrison. You’re good at what you do. I don’t want to have to take that from you. Do you understand? Will you do what you’re told?”

“Yes, Michael. I seek only to serve Heaven.”

“I know you do. I need you to do something. I’m sure you’ve heard the prayers?”

Castiel nods. One of his vessels on earth has been sorely tempted and is requesting intervention. Castiel is perfectly suited to it, though it’s a bit below his role as a garrison leader. “I have. What do you wish of me?”

“Go. Take your vessel. Look into this temptation, and if it is a demon as we suspect, smite it. Keep your vessel on his path, and return to us.” He pauses, his expression distressed and compassionate. It doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Show me how well you follow orders and I’ll consider your place here, Castiel. Please let Uriel know he will lead until you return.”

“Of course, Michael.”

He forces himself not to hurry away or hunch as he leaves the great hall.

* * *

**Dean: September, 1923**

Dean stands across the street from the church and waits for the parishioners to trickle out. Father Jimmy is there, shaking every hand, patting shoulders and providing reassurances.

Hypocrite.

Dean’s fairly sure he’s going to have his dick in the man’s mouth before the day is over, and there’s something really satisfying about that. Bringing the good ones low. Showing them they’re no better than anyone else. No better than any other human. No better than a demon.

It might not be today - he’s pushing the timeline a little bit because the Father is hot, and he’s good, and Dean really wants to tear him down. Let him make his own torture of guilt and second guesses. 

Good people remind him of the ones that believed in him once, and it’s a sick and uncomfortable feeling that sits in his stomach like one of Alistair’s knives. 

The sooner he rubs that thin veneer of goodness off the Father, the better.

He follows Jimmy back into the church, gives him some distance and waits for him to go into his office before he closes the gap.

“Father,” he says quietly from the doorway, looking up carefully through his lashes. He’s perfected this gaze over time. This look, coy and innocent, as if he hasn’t seduced a hundred men more devout than this one.

The priest looks at him, face impassive. He looks otherworldly this way, face shining in the light streaming through the stained glass window. The previously serene smile is now flat and haughty.

“Dean. Winchester. You’ve taken a last name.” The priest tips his head, looking puzzled. “How...human of you.” 

Dean’s skin prickles. There’s power there. Something...interesting. He smiles and lets his eyes flip black.

“You’re not Jimmy. Who are you?” he asks softly. He searches the familiar eyes and they glow white behind the intoxicating blue. “Come out and play,” he taunts in a sing song voice. The power this being has is dangerous and rightly terrifying. But Dean hasn’t feared much of anything for a long time, and he’s _always_ primed for a fight.

The priest stands and moves to the center of the room. He’s still shorter than Dean by a few inches, but something about him feels massive and dark. Vengeful. 

Heavenly. 

Dean grins. This is gonna be _fun_. He presses his hand, fingers wide, to the priest’s chest and _shoves_ \- all the darkness of Hell presses forward, focused, to press muscle and bone out of the vessel with a gruesome ripping. A mockery of huge angel wings rise, heavy and wet with blood, from the priest’s back.

Jimmy falls to one knee with a strangled moan. The wings stir a hurricane in the room, making the candles gutter as the angel pushes back with his Grace and then stands straight and tall, shining, angel blade in hand. 

“I am Castiel,” The angel says. His Grace is shining through his skin now, just enough to make Dean squint. “I am an Angel of the Lord. I will not allow you to take this man, demon.”

Dean has gotten the first strike in and he uses that tiny advantage by grabbing for the wings whenever he can. He has a knife, but there’s no way it’ll kill an angel, and he’s in a church chock full of holy items the angel can use against him.

But a fair fight wouldn’t be any fun, anyway, he tells himself. He beckons the angel forward and braces, already planning how to use the desk, the chair, the window, the decorative goblets with their soft metals.

* * *

**Castiel: September, 1923**

The wings at Castiel’s back are not his own. His true form isn’t flesh, or even matter. It is an embodiment of ideals, of his Father’s will. It is Love and War and Sacrifice, carved into a form that only a few humans can comprehend.

No, these wings are an abomination, pressed from his Self into something black and captive - neither vessel nor form, but something between. Something infinitely wrong and horrifically painful that rises like fury behind him.

He fights through the pain with the assurance of the righteous. He is God’s warrior, and he is in a house of God. This demon has no appreciation for what he is, the holy power he wields. Castiel will enjoy showing him his error.

The demon dodges behind the desk so Castiel topples it. Demon, desk and candles go through the window. Castiel follows, angel blade at the ready. 

He’s confident but not foolish. This is a Knight of Hell, and while Castiel has no doubt he’ll win, he’s not stupid. He won’t close in for the kill until he knows he’s got the demon cornered.

The battle is going his way. There was no other way for it to go, really. He steps forward to strike and there’s a pain in his chest, harsh and sudden, like being torn out of his vessel. He looks down, expecting to see _something_ \- an ancient blade, a tear, some massive injury - but there’s nothing. 

And then a knife slides in - the demon taking advantage of whatever spell or weapon he’s used. Castiel has a moment to feel the visceral pain of failing Michael, of being such a poor soldier that _this_ creature could finish him after millennia of glorious service in battle. He grasps for understanding - desperate to know the source of his downfall, what throttled his Grace. 

He still hasn’t found the answer when everything goes black.

* * *

“Ah, you’re awake. Look. At. You.” The demon’s voice is appreciative. Full of awe and something like joy, and Castiel knows that promises pain and horror. Demons thrive on suffering. 

Well, Castiel is no stranger to it. If the demon thinks he can break an angel, he’s sorely mistaken. Angels are built for more than war. More than delivering messages. They are _built_ to take suffering. They don’t break the way that humans do.

Castiel meets the demon’s eyes, still the gentle green of the human vessel, and holds that gaze, removes all emotion from his face. It’s not a challenge, really. Castiel isn’t quite strong enough to provoke the demon, but he wants him to know - whatever he has in store - whatever it used to take him down - it didn’t break him then, and it won’t now. He’ll take whatever it doles out.

The concrete floor is cool under his bare feet, and the walls of the near empty room appear to be metal. Thick. The door is enormous and has a huge lock mechanism in the center. The demon has found a very secure location. They will not be disturbed. Castiel tightens his jaw against the fear that threatens. He will stay calm and find a way to return to Heaven, as he promised.

The wings - the abomination of them the demon thrust from him during battle - are tied behind him, closed and painful wherever the rough rope touches them. His Grace is bound, too much to pull the wings back into his vessel. Too much to fight. Just enough to sustain him. So, it’s going to be torture. The long, drawn out kind. He has enough Grace to get him through damage that would kill his vessel, but nothing that will actually help him escape. Jimmy’s cassock is gone, but he’s still wearing the slacks that were underneath. His skin is bare. Ready to bleed, he assumes.

“So,” the demon says, stepping forward and flipping his knife idly in one hand. “You were doing so well, there, in our little tete-a-tete. I gotta admit, I really want to know how you suddenly managed to get a knife in the side. You gonna tell me?”

Castiel feels his face betray his confusion and he schools it into back to impassivity. Hadn’t the demon hit him with something? It had to have been something spelled to drain his Grace, something small he didn’t see. He’d assumed a new weapon of some sort. Or an old one - maybe he’d gotten hold of something angelic, or an old blade - Cain’s or Lucifer’s or one of the angel blades of the lost - though Castiel still wasn’t sure how an angel blade could damage him without making a mark. A lower level angel’s blade might not have killed him, but he should still have a wound. He remembers the feeling and the location well, and there is not a mark on his skin.

“Did they send you to me?” the demon asks. His hand flashes out, pulling the knife skillfully across one rib, parting skin and muscle with ease. Castiel sets his jaw against the pain, the warm rush of blood. “What are you here to find, I wonder?” Another cut, shallow, precise and parallel. “You _will_ tell me, angel. I’ve got all century to make you talk.”

He won’t, of course - wouldn’t talk even if he had secrets to give, because he’s a good soldier. But he desperately wishes he knew what the demon’s talking about.

“Did they send you to me to be tortured? Are you going to lie to me when I cut you?” The demon’s expression is harsh now, eyes narrow and brows together. He looks considerably more terrifying like this, but Castiel doesn’t move. He is _Michael’s_ soldier, and Michael...well, _he_ is terrifying.

Michael had been displeased. He’d wanted Castiel to show his allegiance - It’s why Castiel is here, now, pursuing this demon. 

The Archangel had sent him here to prove himself. And maybe _this_ is the proof. Maybe Michael has weakened him so he can get something here. Find something of use and bring it back to Heaven.

Maybe.

The demon cuts him neatly over each rib, interrogates and threatens him - why is he here, why shouldn’t the demon just kill him, what does he know? He’s taunted and cut and damaged and hung like a slab of meat, and he’s quiet throughout.

_ Michael,_ he pleads silently. _What do you want of me? How can I serve you here?_

* * *

Dean is smirking the next time Castiel sees him. He strides through the heavy vault door, whistling, with a new blade and a bottle of something thick. He draws wards with the liquid, and Castiel smells the metallic tang of blood. 

Human. Probably virgin. 

It feels like hours go by, and Castiel feels his Grace waver and dampen. Even more than the cuffs, the rope against his wings, whatever else the demon has put in place - these wards weaken him. It’s clear the demon isn’t taking any chances - he draws three rings of sigils around Castiel, and the level of care and knowledge he demonstrates are impressive. 

Worrisome.

“We burnt this town to the ground, angel,” the demon tells him as he puts the wards in place. “Your buddy’s church is timbers, now. Nice job, there.” He looks up, but Castiel looks ahead resolutely. “Means this vault is going to be nice and cozy for a while, so you’ll want to get comfortable.”

Castiel wonders if the demon is lying. Hopes he is. But he remembers the candles, how they fell during the battle, and he wonders if he has human blood on his hands, now. He wants to ask if anyone was hurt, but to ask would be to show weakness.

The demon would lie to him anyway. It’s what they do.

“There we are,” Dean says, looking over his handiwork. “Now, let’s have a chat. Man to man. Demon to fallen.”

Castiel grimaces. “I didn’t _fall_, demon. That was your master.”

“Master?” Dean scoffs, attaching oddly to Castiel’s jibe. “I’m no one’s slave, Castiel. I’m no one’s caged bird.” He shakes his head and smiles, slowly. 

Cruelly.

“Let’s have another chat. Maybe you’ve changed your tune,” Dean says softly, back to the task at hand. He slides the knife in so slowly that Castiel can feel each millimeter of parting flesh and muscle under the sharp burn of the knife. “I’ve got time.” Castiel is able to pinpoint the moment it punctures his chest cavity and he loses the use of that lung. His Grace is weak, the knife is like hellfire in his veins and the pain is raw in a way he wasn’t prepared for.

Castiel’s screams are wet, like he’s drowning, and Dean murmurs in appreciation. “Beautiful. Sing, little bird. Let me hear that pretty song.”

_ **A mockery of huge angel wings rise, heavy and wet with blood, from the priest’s back.** _


	3. Nothing Left to Lose

**Castiel: November, 1929**

Dean moves him to three new locations before Castiel decides to ask. It’s a risk - Dean gets creative when he’s angry, when he feels his authority being questioned.

But something feels important about this, like there might be something tactical. He needs to understand his role in Dean’s plan. Is he a pawn in something greater, or is it just Dean he needs to understand and placate?

If this were Heaven, there would be soldiers stationed at the door, taking turns checking in. They’d play off against one another, they’d try different tactics. They’d never send one of them in alone. Not for years at a time. 

“We keep moving,” Castiel says, finally. He balances his tone, modulating as he would for Michael. “Are we hiding from mine? Or yours?”

Dean glowers.

“You haven’t told them I’m here, have you?”

“Clever little bird,” Dean hums. He moves through the wards carefully, making sure they’re undisturbed as he gets close enough to use his knife.

“Why not?”

“Some things aren’t meant to be shared. Some prizes shouldn’t be...given away.” Dean says softly, stalking around Castiel where he hangs.

“Don’t want to share me with your family?” Castiel asks softly, the barest hint of an edge to his voice.

Dean’s lips thin in irritation. “They aren’t my _family_, Cas. You know what I do to family? You’ll like this one. When I turned and was allowed topside again, the first thing - the very first thing I did? I hunted my father like the animal he was, and I _slaughtered_ him. Don’t pretend you know anything about me, or my kind. You don’t.”

“Just your father?”

“Just my dad,” Dean breathes into Castiel’s ear. “I ripped his skin off before I took him apart, joint by joint. He always thought he was the boss, you know? I made sure he learned otherwise before I let him die.”

Castiel forces his body still. The words are chilling, the proximity - Dean’s face to his, the warmth of it, the near promise of contact - is something else. Warm and twisting. Almost hopeful, and then immediately sickening. “Was he all you had?”

The demon snorts a laugh. “You say that like you _care_. Like you worry that I wasn’t _loved enough_ as a child. You are a very curious little bird, Cas. I’m not sure how to feel about that. Have I trained you to speak so freely?” He jerks Castiel back by the ropes that burn into his wings, tearing into the sensitive flesh there, still thin and new after so long. Cas cries out and it seems to soothe the demon a bit.

“Don’t you worry, now. Everyone I knew then is long dead.”

His voice is steady but there’s something there. Some secret he doesn’t tell, and Castiel wonders how that might work - coaxing that out of him, understanding him better.

* * *

**Castiel: February, 1937**

Castiel tells the demon nothing of import. Nothing but screams and carefully weighted taunts. It feels like years. He wants to prove himself to Michael. Show that he can hold up, that he can do what’s needed. Unfortunately, no one’s told him what’s needed, here. No instructions were given to him, other than to answer the prayers of his vessel, save him from the demon and eliminate the threat. There hadn’t been so much as a whisper of a greater purpose.

He can’t tell Dean why he’s here because he doesn’t know. No one told him what to do now. Now that he’s captured and hung. No one told him how to do this the right way.

Today, the torture isn’t tied to questions. It’s just for Dean’s pleasure, as far as Castiel can tell.

“Do you have faith, Castiel?”

“Of course.” His response is automatic, fear-based.

“Why?”

Panic rises as he realizes that he’s catered to the wrong audience. “Because...I’m an angel.”

Dean smiles a feral smile. “Hmm… Let’s see if we can fix that for you.”

The demon cuts shallow, and then deep, draws that knife over skin and muscle, and then deeper again, finds his insides and spools them out like thread. Castiel has long given up on being silent. The screaming doesn’t help the pain, but it seems to satisfy the demon to some small extent. Just as it pleased the angels. Naomi. Michael.

“Oh, little bird. Look at you, singing so pretty.”

Cas hangs, panting with pain. He takes the short respite to try to stitch his thoughts, his sanity, back together.

“You gonna be good for me? You gonna do what I tell you?” Dean lifts Cas’s chin with the flat of the blade and Castiel forces himself not to fight it. He’s felt the bite of that knife in his throat and he doesn’t want to feel it again.

“Just do what I tell you and I won’t have to hurt you. Much.” he laughs and it’s a cruel, cutting, familiar sound. “You can be my pet. My very own little caged bird, singing on demand.”

_You gonna do what I tell you?_

_ **Will you do what you’re told?** _

Something harsh percolates up from Castiel’s chest. Something that burns like the absolute justice of Heaven. It’s the height of absurdity, how closely Dean has parroted the last words Michael ever said to him. Before he sent him to _this_. Before he delivered Castiel to the enemy.

Because, Castiel finally admits, that _is_ what happened. It has to be. It’s been _years_. If Michael had planned to send someone for him, he would already be free. 

Castiel bursts out laughing.

_ **Show me how well you follow orders and I’ll consider your place here, Castiel.** _

Dean presses the knife up, sneering. “Something funny, little bird?”

Castiel suddenly doesn’t care about the pain, about the knife. It’s just like serving Heaven, being trained and molded and formed with carefully administered pain and reward. 

Castiel sneers back, knowing he’s already failed this test - Michael’s and Dean’s, both. He says the most offensive thing he can think of. “You sound like Michael,” he spits with as much contempt as he can muster. “You sound like an _Angel_.”

Dean cuts his throat.

* * *

**Castiel: October, 1945**

Sometimes it’s years, Castiel thinks, between visits. He’s not sure why - if the demon is truly so busy he can’t find the time to return, or if somehow the absense is meant to be it’s own torture. And it is. It really is. 

He’s lost track of how many times Dean has come to him - wielded the knife, cut him down to the bone, left him hanging to knit himself back together. He’s lost track of the time that drags on in between.

“Ah, my little bird. I’m always a little afraid I’ll come by and you’ll have flown the nest.” He steps in and takes off his boots in an odd domestic gesture. Castiel notices everything, now, because he wants to see the moment the demon tenses up, the moment his lips thin, the moment his head tips just so - just that little bit of warning before the pain - maybe early enough that he can ease it, begging or screaming just the way the demon likes.

He’s long past pride. He’s just tired of everything hurting.

The demon seems calm today. He came in tense but his shoulders are down a bit, lips full and pursed, a little pleased. Castiel avoids looking him in the eyes, but stays attentive.

The demon takes his chin in hand, moves his face side to side. “Miss me?”

“Yes,” Castiel breathes. It’s not quite the truth, but not really a lie, either. The silence is painfully boring, and standing in one position creates a subtle, invasive sort of pain. Slow growing. It picks at whatever is left of his sanity.

“It’s been too long, wouldn’t you say? It’s been all hands on deck for _years_, now. I just haven’t been able to get away. It’s exhausting.” Dean touches his face gently and Castiel whimpers and leans into the warmth. 

“What a good little bird you are,” Dean whispers low in his ear. 

Castiel feels a thrill of joy before he can tamp it down. He’s trained to this. Michael. Heaven. They’ve taught him, trained him, _hurt_ him into needing this. 

It serves them right, to have that turned back around. To have him shiver under the hands of a demon. 

Dean kisses his cheek softly, runs the dull side of a blade against his abdomen and he stifles a shiver. “I just need to hear you today. It’s so soothing when you scream for me. It’s been rough.” He sighs, tenses slightly, and Castiel forces himself not to react. There’s nothing he can do to relieve this sort of tension except scream when the demon cuts. He’s not angry, at least. It won’t be as bad.

“So many souls to torture into darkness, you lose the _art_ of it,” Dean says. “And everyone wants to tell me how to do it. Point me in a direction. Order me around like a hired hand. But you know, don’t you? You know I’m more.”

“Yes,” Castiel breathes again. 

“Yeah, I know you do. Beautiful,” Dean croons, fingers smoothing Castiel’s brow as he carves a line just over Castiel’s kidney, making him arch and scream. The thrill rises again with the praise and Castiel lets it take him over. Lets himself shake with it, lets his head fall. If Heaven wanted him owned, he’d give that to them. Good soldier, indeed.

* * *

**Castiel: September, 1953**

The new place is a sparsely furnished room, perpetually cool and dark and so deep underground that Castiel can’t even guess at the seasons. He still isn’t quite used to it when Dean visits again, his mood unusually light.

The demon takes Castiel down from where his hands are tied, leaves him cuffed but loose within the wards. Rubs his arms and presses his thumbs into the muscles of Castiel’s shoulders and in the crease of his armpit where he aches most with decades of near immobility.

Castiel whimpers, and the demon kisses his shoulder in a mockery of care. 

“I have something for you, today, little bird. I wanted to do something special. Do you know this is our thirtieth? Thirty years to the day since I captured you.”

Castiel’s mind races. It has felt like decades, certainly. It’s been lonely and hard and impossible to track. Without his Grace he’s cut off. Can’t hear the other angels, can’t feel the path of the planets, the rotation of the earth. 

It feels both longer and shorter than the thirty years Dean is claiming. A century at least. Sometimes, a year. 

He recalibrates all his memories against this one fact.

Then wonders if the demon is telling the truth.

“Here’s what I’m gonna do, Cas. I have this collar, here. Isn’t it beautiful? I had it made, special, just for you. See the inlay? Mother of pearl. It holds a spell beautifully.” Dean smooths a hand over Castiel’s neck and he suppresses a shiver, allows himself to close his eyes. Whether the demon sees it as pleasure or fear, it will please him.

“You _are_ special, you know. I don’t tell you enough. So much better than a human soul. So much stronger. I think it’s time, little bird, for you to decide. You miss me, you put it on. Or, I leave you alone. Forever. Your choice.”

Castiel stiffens. “You leave me...alone?” Something rises in him, a dangerous tendril of something like hope. Like fear.

Dean loops the cuffs back up over the hook in the center of the room. Redraws the seals in fresh blood, tightens the ropes that drag constantly at the sensitive skin of Castiel’s wings.

“I leave you alone. You get to just...hang out. Take a load off.” He chuckles, hanging the collar next to Cas’s head. “And if you get lonely, or bored, just need a change of pace - you put that on, and I’ll come take care of you.” He steps in, slides a cheek against Castiel’s in something that feels almost like affection. “It’ll be your promise. You put that on, you’re telling me you’re mine. Anything I want, I get. And, little bird?” He nuzzles in, nose against Castiel’s throat. He’s bitten there before, drawn blood. But not today. Today he’s gentle. “We’re gonna have a real good time.” 

Dean kisses him gently before he leaves - twice, once to the temple, once to the corner of his mouth. Smiles sweetly.

“Oh, angel. I will miss you.” Dean pats his cheek and then closes the door behind him. Castiel hears a scraping outside, something heavy. _Clink. Clink_. It takes a few minutes for him to realize that it’s a wall going up. Those are bricks, sliding against each other, pressing into mortar. The sounds move higher and Castiel tries to control the panic that rises in his vessel, forcing breath - too fast - in and out of his lungs, making everything tingle. He wants to scream and cry, but he won’t give Dean the satisfaction. He was a good soldier once. He’s been through a lot. He can make it through this.

* * *

**Castiel: March, 1969**

The problem, ultimately, is that there is no ‘through.’ He is an immortal being. He could be saved, but he knows no one is looking for him. He could be found, but it’s likely to be centuries before that happens. Unless the city gets buried or flooded, in which case he’s likely to be here at least until the world ends. 

There is no end in sight for him. Discomfort becomes a low-grade agony of tingles and lack of circulation, his limbs threatening gangrene, his bonds allowing just enough Grace to trickle through for his vessel to stay together. Just that much. Not enough to heal completely, just enough to maximize the agony. The demon knows what he’s doing.

There are whispers in the dark, now. He feels haunted, and it’s worse than the loneliness.

“Hello?” he calls uncertainly. 

Michael and Naomi and Zachariah whisper to him, taunting him with how weak he is. He hangs at the end of his cuffs, his legs have worn out, his vessel is weak with lack of Grace, lack of movement, lack of everything. 

“My little bird,” comes the caress of a voice, a sigh, a breath. It’s soft, and it’s the only hint of kindness in the dark.

Dean.

The demon who left him here, who told him to give up, and he shouldn’t. He knows he shouldn’t.

“We always knew you were weak, Castiel. That’s why we left you,” Naomi says matter-of-factly from the shadows. “Hardly worth the effort, are you?”

His eyes leak tears, the world is strange and slanted. It feels like it’s been an eternity. 

“You left me,” he says, and his voice has been unused for a decade, comes out in a croak.

_“All you have to do is put it on, and I’ll come take care of you.”_

He knows it won’t be pleasant. Knows he’s just asking for more torture. 

It takes years to make the decision; he thinks it might be weeks that he waits, even after it’s made. And then one day, he moves. He pulls his hands against the chain, grunts with the effort of pulling it through the locked pulley. Dean has managed to make it painful but not impossible. He truly has to want this to make it happen. Castiel grips the collar and tugs it free, and then presses his full body weight, the full weight of all the Grace he has left, to lock it around his throat. The magic takes over and winds through the leather, he can feel it warm and intimate against his skin. And then, like Dean, it goes from gentle to sharp in a second - locks in place with a snap and then burns there, tightening and fitting to his skin and digging in the teeth of the warding, a painful promise of what’s to come.

_You give me permission to do whatever I want…_

Castiel shivers and refuses to think about the fact that it might not all be fear.


	4. Secrets of My Soul

**Castiel: March, 1969**

Castiel isn’t sure how long it’s been. Another decade? A day? He’s been pleading with them to stop, but they won’t. They never have, they always thrived on making him feel like he was nothing.

“Please,” he begs - they love it when he begs. “Naomi, I’m sorry, please…”

“Who is Naomi?”

The voice is close. Angry. Urgent. “Cas! Tell me. Is she...an angel? Did an _angel_ hurt you?” 

Castiel fights to open his eyes, to separate the voices, to understand who it is, now. A face looms close, angry eyes framed in dark hair. “What did she do to you? I’ll rip her lungs out and feed them to her, you understand? _I’m_ the only one who gets to make you beg.”

“Please, Michael, _please_. I’m sorry.”

His body is shifted, arms lifted and brought down and he cries out from the pain of unused joints forced into motion. There’s warmth on his face, he’s trying to say he’s sorry but he’s not sure he’s making sense. He falls to his knees, the pain more immediate and grounding. When the sensation starts to return, he hears something long and high pitched, realizes it’s coming from his own throat. Maybe he is finally broken. Maybe they finally found that point.

“Angels, huh?” The voice is incredulous, dark. Not Michael. No.

He relaxes minutely as he recognizes it, finally. Dean. His captor. Not Michael.

“That’s really fucked up, Cas. Angels and their holier-than-thou bullshit. After all that, they’re just demons with better PR.” The laugh is bitter.

Castiel feels arm around him, holding him up. Lips against his ear, words dark and biting. “Fuck ‘em, Cas. You’re mine, now. They’re never gonna touch you again.”

It should be terrifying to hear. That he’ll never get away. That he’ll always be at Dean’s mercy. But it’s not. It’s comforting to know that he has some control. That he can be good for Dean, and he can have these moments of calm. Of something like kindness, a touch that isn’t pain.

Castiel doesn’t believe in happy endings. Not for him. Sure, the _world_. Heaven. He’s been told what that looks like - the war, the apocalypse, knowing who wins, bringing all the souls home to rest.

But happiness isn’t really what angels are for. 

Obedience. Service. Bowing and scraping and taking what’s given, doing what’s asked. That’s an angel’s role.

All he’s ever wanted was to be of value. Just once, be told that he was doing the right thing. That he’d done well, he’d earned his Father’s respect, or his brother’s.

And now he’s here. They’ve deserted him. No, they’ve _betrayed_ him. 

And another definition begins to rise up from the ashes of that dead dream. Just this - to have someone who will never leave. Who wants him, who finds him unique. Valuable. Who finds him good. Who will reward him as well as punish him. 

He wants forever. And he thinks, maybe, if he’s careful, canny, if he’s _good_, he can have it.

“Easy,” Dean soothes. “Easy, little bird. I’ve got you, now. I can be merciful for you. You’re my good little bird, now. Wearing my collar just like I asked. Shhhh…remember I told you about my family? My father? He didn’t trust me, Cas. He didn’t take me seriously. But my brother. I didn’t tell you about him, didn’t want you to misunderstand, think I was soft.”

There are fingers in his hair now, and the demon’s voice is soothing. “He looked up to me, Cas. That’s all I ever wanted. Someone to look up to me and follow me, trust me. I took care of him when I got back. He didn’t know, but I took care of _everything_. Everyone who treated him mean, little bird, every girl who took advantage of his kindness. I took care of it. I eased his way.”

Dean continues to stroke his hair, to hold him like a lover, a friend, a brother. “You see? All I ever wanted was this.” Fingers brush along the teeth of the collar where they bite, and Castiel moans. “Someone to trust themselves to me. And now you have. You’ve shown me, and now you’ll see. I can be merciful. I’ll take care of you. They’ll never touch you again.”

Castiel lets himself relax, just a little bit, into the arms that hold him. More pain will come. It’s always been like that. But he’ll take this respite while he can.

* * *

**Dean: March, 1969**

It’s taken sixteen years, six months and twelve days for Dean to finally feel the buzz in the back of his head that tells him the collar has made it home.

The time for finesse is over. Fuck Alistair. He’ll slash and hack and get what he needs for the job and then. _Then_ he can see his angel. 

Will he be breathless with anticipation? Touch starved and needy? Will he be angry, will he need to be reminded who has the power? Dean hasn’t had to do that in a long time, but maybe the angel’s found some reserves in there, somewhere. Will he be quiet and submissive, will he have understood and accepted everything the collar means?

Dean secretly hopes not. He likes the occasional fire, there. The moments of anger, frustration and fear that crop up, that he crushes with a well-placed blade and some careful reminders.

He hadn’t expected to miss Castiel. Hadn’t expected to be so impatient, so frustrated by the wait. This is a trial for his little bird, not for him. But it makes him realize how much better life is with his beautiful creature stretched out helpless before him.

When he arrives at the old bomb shelter, it’s none of the scenarios he’d imagined. The angel is out of his mind, whimpering and begging and afraid. Not of _Dean_. Not like he should be. No, he’s crying to some _Naomi_. Begging her not to hurt him, and Dean is furious.

When Michael’s name comes up, that fucking Archangel, he sees red.

Dean knows, he _lives_, the darkness and torture and pure evil that is being a demon, existing in Hell and doing the boss’s bidding. He enjoys it, and there’s no shame in that. But demons are evil. They’re _supposed_ to cause pain. There is something so contrary, so rage inducing about knowing that angels can do this to their own kind. That the angel fears them even more than he fears Dean. It’s wrong. More than anything he’s encountered, here or below, it’s _wrong_. 

Something rises in him that is dark. Personal. Different. It’s rage, just like it always is, but it’s focused. Like that rage that drove him early on, to take apart those that dared hurt his brother. 

The angel is _his_. The angel’s agreed - put on the collar when he had a choice - he’s given himself over, knowingly, and that make him _Dean’s_. 

He pulls the angel down, lets him fall to his knees and the words flow almost without thought, reassurances and promises. He talks about Sam for the first time in a century. His brother, who believed in him when he was well past any sort of faith. He’d done his best. It was never good enough for Sam, but at least _Dean_ knew he’d done right.

“No one hurts what’s mine, little bird,” he soothes, pressing his fingers into muscles kept alive only by Grace. “They’ll never hurt you again.”

The angel finally looks up through long lashes. “Dean,” he breathes, and it sounds like relief, like acceptance, and it warms him. The angel understands. Doesn’t need him to be some shiny thing on a pedestal. 

“Yes, yes, it’s me. I’ve got you. They can’t ever touch you. Not ever.”

The angel nods and his eyes flicker closed. 

Dean touches him softly, strokes his throat, his lips, his temple, down his sides and over the firm muscles of his side and abdomen. The priest had been an ideal vessel. 

He takes his time, touches gently when he strips the angel naked, murmurs in his ear. “Little bird, I’ve got you. Gonna make you mine, just like you need. You need me to touch you, don’t you? Need my hands on you, need to belong to me. I’ve got you, now. I’ve got you.”

He touches gently, then presses hard enough to bruise, needs the angel to know he’s owned and sullied and broken and his, his, his.

He presses fingers down along the angel’s spine and he shudders but doesn’t pull away. 

“Fuck, look at you, beautiful.” Dean can’t help it, talks to him like a lover - it’s hard to make this hurt, it’s been so long. He wants the angel to need him. Maybe that’s exactly what they both need, now. 

And that’s why he keeps it like that, no knives, no fists, just fingers pressing too hard, sliding into the angel’s mouth - 

“Yeah, get em nice and wet for me,” he says, sweet and soothing before he slides those same fingers against the angel’s virgin ass and presses them inside, enough to hurt but not too much. Wants to make Castiel beg in a new way.

Sweet whimpers reach his ears and _yes_, that’s _exactly_ what he needed to hear. Sounds like his angel’s about to break open.

“There you are, take that for me. You missed me, didn’t you? Wanted this. That’s why you put on that collar, that’s what you wanted when you hurt yourself to get me back. Needed me, didn’t you? Don’t have to say it, though, I know it’s hard. S’okay, I know what you need.” He sweet talks and the angel’s body twists and collapses, like he’s overwhelmed. Injured. But that’s not what this is. Dean will mark every inch of him, every inch of skin, every inch inside him, mark him and brand him and make him want. Make him need it. As much as Dean does. Need to be owned as much as Dean needs to prove that Castiel is his.

“This your first time?” he croons. “How many times can I make you come, you think? How many times can I make you lose control? Gonna make it so good for you, you’re gonna beg me next time.”

Making it last, making it enjoyable, isn’t something Dean does much anymore. He used to know it so well. But he remembers as he touches the angel, and he’s still got it if the reaction is any indicator. Castiel, Angel of the Lord, is reduced to shivers and shudders and tense muscle as Dean works him over slowly. He moans softly, seems to struggle against it, then leans in, relaxes and allows it. Like he doesn’t want to like it, but _has_ to. That pretty vessel wants it. Dean gets to feel the inside of good little Jimmy Novak after all. 

It feels fantastic. Dark. Beautiful. Like he’s breaking the angel down to his component parts, like he’s tearing out the feathers underneath. This. This is a beautiful sort of torture for both of them. When Dean touches him, he’s hard, tip weeping, shuddering at the light touch, the gentle stroke of his fingers. “Have you ever felt anything like this?” Dean asks. “Dirty you up, huh? Not an angel anymore, little bird. You’re mine. And you asked for it. Put on that collar and called me back to you.”

Dean fills him up, strokes him firm and steady, presses teeth into his shoulder to mark him again. The angel comes with a groan, breathes softly, wretched, into the dark.

“I’ve got you,” Dean murmurs, and he holds his angel until the breathing, hitched and shuddering, steadies.

Then he starts again.


	5. Through All Kinds of Weather

**Dean: January, 1971**

It’s gotten so easy to just go to the angel when Hell stretches him thin. Between the war, the work, the judgement over the small human indulgences. Other demons think it’s weird for him to enjoy the small things - not the whores, the expensive whiskeys, the designer drugs. No. The simplest things that even humans take for granted.

He enjoys the _quintessential_ things. Burgers, for example. Good god, the fast food burger has to be the best thing invented by human kind. Maybe just behind the rack.

Here, he gets to sit with his angel who listens so attentively, gets to enjoy his basic pleasures without judgement.

“And Alistair is telling me to concentrate on the souls. Just ignore that Crowley is creeping around and no one knows what’s going on. I’ll tell you, now, angel - he is up to no good. And not, like, the _good_ kind of no good. Like, he’s planning something big. I can see it when I look at his stupid smug face.” He shakes his head and unwraps the burger he bought for the angel.

“Can you believe that shit? Alistair is not someone who moves with the times. Guy’s stuck in the 20s. Thinks he’s Al Capone or something. Douche.” He shakes his head and places the unwrapped burger in front of Castiel before he takes another bite of his own and moans around it.

“Don’t get me wrong,” he says, mouth still full. “I like torturing. I mean, you really get to the heart of things.” He grins at his own joke and takes another bite.

The angel smiles back at him. His collar glows softly at his throat, and his wrists are unusually bare today - Dean’s feeling especially magnanimous and has set the cuffs aside for now. But the angel hasn’t touched his burger yet, and Dean’s irritation gets the best of him.

“You’re gonna want to take advantage of my hospitality if you ever want out of those cuffs again.”

Castiel looks up and then hastily down. “I’m sorry. I am grateful,” he says softly. He picks the burger up and looks it over. Takes a bite. “Very good,” he says finally, meeting Dean’s eyes shyly.

Dean grins. “You get it! I knew you would. You can appreciate human things.”

“Thank you, Dean. They don’t deserve you,” he says softly, looking up through long lashes like this is some sort of seduction. 

Dean warms. “Why’s that?”

“You’re passionate about your work. I hear it when you tell me your stories. Your temptations are careful and measured.” 

Dean watches him with interest. The angel doesn’t speak much. This is the most he’s said since he stopped fighting.

“Jimmy called me because he knew he was losing. I’m here because you captured me. Because you bested me.” He looks up and his eyes are intense and watchful under heavy lids.

Dean’s chest is full. He smiles, huge and pleased. Crawls carefully across the floor to kiss his angel. “You do get it, don’t you? You understand.”

The angel kisses him back, tastes like humanity - all the things the demons can’t understand Dean liking.

* * *

**Dean: March, 1973**

Some days Dean wonders about leaving Hell altogether. Alistair likes to act as if Dean is still his, just because he’s the one who turned him, who tortured him into this form. 

Dean’s better than that. He has an angel, caught and cared for, captive and wild and beautiful.

He paces as he speaks. As his angel listens, rapt. “I was going to work with a group of them - they feed on this stuff, I’ve done it before, and it works like a charm. A war like this? The President wants something big, it’s an easy one. But, no. Alistair insists that every single one of them gets a demon of their very own. No coordination, everyone just going off on their own. It’s like...demonic anarchy out there! I’ve done the work! I know humans, and I know how to trap them, and will those assholes listen? Of course not.”

He turns slowly, steps carefully into the circle. “But you will, won’t you, little bird? You know I have my reasons.”

The angel nods slowly. Dean grasps his chin and turns his head side to side. No resistance. No tightness in the lips or the jaw. His angel. So receptive.

“Show me,” Dean whispers against the shell of his ear. “Please. I need to see it.” He unclips the cuffs from the ceiling and then from the angel’s wrists. He stumbles but doesn’t fall. 

Dean steps around and pulls at the ropes tied around the huge wings. Those beautiful works of art that he created. Not the angel. Not Heaven. These are Dean’s wings, forced out of the angel with his power, built from the vessel he’d sworn to seduce and corrupt. And hasn’t he done so much more, so much better than that? He unties them slowly. 

“You can pull them back in, little bird,” he whispers against the shell of Cas’s ear. 

They disappear with a whisper of feathers.

“Mmm…” Dean strokes the skin, reddened and raised, where the wings had been pulled and stretched, formed of Grace and his careful twisting of skin and bone from the vessel’s body. The sight is soothing. The angel’s unquestioning obedience. 

“I want to see them again. Show me.”

The angel tenses, but it’s not resistance. His body is still slumped forward as the muscles of his back shift. No, not resistance. This is _effort_, a silent torment that he accepts. He’s pressing the wings out of his body. Dean watches them grow with a smile, listening to the angel’s soft moans as the wings stretch and grow behind him, wet with blood, muscle visible through the paper thin, sensitive skin.

He strokes them and the angel is still for him, doesn’t pull away. He knows they hurt. It’s why he loves them - it’s the best part of his creation, that they hurt now and will in a hundred years, a thousand. That paper thin skin and those delicate nerves are designed that way.

“Take them back,” he says. “Quickly, please.”

The angel pulls them in with a snap and stumbles as his knees start to buckle. He’s weak, but he’s game. He does what he’s told. He’s better behaved than most of the demons Dean’s met. 

Dedicated.

“Show me.”

The angel pushes the wings back out and screams, a beautiful, tormented sound, and falls to his knees. Dean can see how he holds on by a thread. His Grace can’t keep up with it, there’s blood rolling down his back, dripping from his feathers.

Dean watches with an awed smile. “Stand up, now, let me see you.” 

Castiel struggles to rise to his feet, stumbles and falls. Tries again, back to his knees, pressing weak legs under him, pressing up and straining. He falls again. And again, back to his knees, valiantly trying again.

Dean moves in and puts a hand under the angel’s elbow, helps him to his feet as his whole body shakes. “You’d destroy yourself for me, wouldn’t you? That is...so beautiful.”

He kisses him gently, carefully, and Castiel, the Angel, _his angel_, breathes harshly into his mouth, opens to him like a locked door, spills breath like secrets and Dean can’t help a small, triumphant laugh as he grabs Castiel up in his arms and pulls him close, feeling the blood of his angel’s supplication running over his fingers.

“You’re amazing, you know that? You’re _mine_. My perfect little bird.” 

Castiel kisses him hungrily but always respectfully, never trying to take, just showing his appreciation. He’s perfect. Fuck, he’s absolutely perfect. He’s making sweet, hungry noises, and just like that, Dean is refreshed and calm. 

“Perfect,” he breathes again.

* * *

**Castiel: March, 1973**

Castiel is still exhausted and he stiffens in fear when Dean returns. It can’t have been long - days, maybe a week? He can’t provide a show like that again. Not so soon. His entire body aches with it, muscles still trying desperately to knit together with the trickle of Grace his bonds allow.

But then he sees how Dean moves to close the door, to set his favorite knife aside and take off his boots. Slow and stiff. Tired. He sighs deeply and Castiel finds his fear turning to concern.

“Never thought this day would come,” Dean groans. “When I’d be tired of taking people apart on the rack. Lots of overtime, these days, with the war. As if it matters why people kill each other. We’re whispering into a hundred eager ears - _send more missiles, what’s a few innocent casualties?”_

His words are mumbled, less targeted than usual. Less careful. “Alistair is feeding me every word, micromanaging like I’m off the rack a year. Right, I don’t know how to twist a soul that’s already begging for the Pit? And these generals are easy - just dying for an excuse to claim more land and power. Nothing on this earth could make them grow a conscience.” Dean laughs bitterly and steps inside the wards. He unhooks Castiel with practiced movements, removes the cuffs and sets them aside.

It feels kind.

Castiel curls into the demon without thought or concern, pillows his head in Dean’s lap to listen, makes sure to watch with open and alert eyes, just the way Dean likes.

“I was created, you know. I was human, once,” Dean says, stroking his hair absently. “I signed on to keep them off my brother’s tail. They got everything. They got _me_. Couldn’t have asked for anyone more brutal, more bloodthirsty. We were hunters already - all the things that go bump in the night. But that’s not enough to get you sent downstairs. Monsters don’t count. You have to sign a deal, or take out humans. A little speciesist, don’t you think? But, I would have been good at this stuff even then. It’s just giving them an excuse to do what they want to do anyhow.”

Castiel cautiously allows himself to reach out. Carefully, he doesn’t want to trigger Dean’s wrath. He touches Dean’s calf, and when there’s no reprimand, rubs small circles with his thumb that he hopes are soothing.

Dean continues, “I’ll tell you a secret - after that first shot was fired, we could have just as easily stepped back. They’re so damn good at killing each other. They’re all fucking broken and filthy inside. Some hide it better than others, but all of them, every single one, every one has murder in ‘em.”

“Even Sam?” Castiel asks softly. The demon had spoken as if his brother were precious.

Dean stiffens immediately, and Castiel freezes. “You think I’ll accept my brother’s name in your mouth, angel?”

“I’m sorry,” Castiel says, realizing his mistake too late. He moves back and prostrates himself on the floor.

The pause before Dean speaks is full and threatening; Castiel’s heartbeat fills his ears like the sound of the ocean. 

There’s a sharp tug on the ropes around his wings, and Castiel accepts the pain as his due.

“I know you are,” Dean says finally. The hand returns to his hair, tugs him up and back into the demon’s lap. He stays carefully pliant even as he crawls where Dean guides him.

“Maybe,” Dean says softly. “Maybe even him. I protected him from that. I kept him from needing it. But I think they all have it, somewhere. All of them, rotten and dark on the inside.”

Castiel is quiet. He revels in the touch of his cheek on Dean’s thigh, Dean’s fingers back in his hair. He used to hate himself for that, but he’s given up on it. Self-loathing seems pointless now.

“Lucifer help them if they’d gotten Sammy after all. Kid couldn’t be cruel even when it was called for. Too analytical. I was the better fit, but they couldn’t let him go. Even after I signed, they found clauses, and gaps. I think Crowley put them there on purpose. He let them have a way in.” His fingers tighten painfully and Castiel forces himself to stay silent.

“They couldn’t kill him, but they could _steer_ him. After everything I did to keep him safe. They had me, and still, the greedy bastards wanted him, too. Didn’t count on me, though - I practically raised that kid. I could move him like a little puppet. Pull his strings, push him around the map. Get a gun in his hands and make him angry enough to use it.”

It’s hard to know if Dean’s talking to Castiel anymore. His eyes have a far-away look to them, but the set of his face is grim, and Castiel knows that look well. He forces his limbs still, makes himself small.

“The higher-ups were mad about Azazel, but they couldn’t pin it on anyone but ol’ yellow eyes himself. He’d been too pushy. He should have stayed in the background, they finally decided. And then I kept watch. When Sammy’s boss was gonna pass him over for a partnership, well...they never did find the body. When his girl was gonna suggest he spend more time at home...I took care of it. He got everything he wanted ‘cause of me. Seventy-two years of success before he shuffled off into that pure white light. I did that for him.”

Dean’s hand cups his cheek, and his voice is steel. “So, you see, angel? You don’t need God. Michael. You got me.”

Castiel relaxes against that touch, that promise.

“Thank you,” he whispers.


	6. Trade All of My Tomorrows

**Castiel: May, 1995**

When Dean enters, it’s typically quiet. Predatory. He moves slowly, in control. Every motion is calculated. 

Not today. Today he bounces in, breathless and laughing. He smells metallic, and when he turns to face Castiel he looks alive, full of some feral joy that is at once terrifying and electric. He’s covered in blood. It’s everywhere - sprayed across his face, drying on his hands and soaked into his clothes where it’s still wet and shining.

“Dean,” Castiel whispers, then holds his breath, unsure what’s expected, how he’s supposed to react. Finally, he finds a safe question. “Are you all right?”

Dean’s grin widens. “You worried about me, angel?” His fingers brush Castiel’s cheek, who closes his eyes at the light touch. The fingers are dry, but he wonders if there’s blood there, now, flecks of it on his face. 

“Damn, you’re just perfect, aren’t you?” Dean asks quietly, and kisses Castiel with an unusual gentleness. “I ran into a friend of yours,” he whispers there. 

Castiel can’t help a panicked breath. He has to be talking about an angel, and that’s terrifying, too. Castiel knows they aren’t his friends anymore. They’ve deserted him. Left him for dead, and no doubt felt it was good riddance. But some of them were kind to him.

Dean’s voice holds a warning. “Is that for me, or for them?”

He settles on something safe. A truth. “They’re dangerous.”

Dean kisses him again. “Don’t underestimate me, angel. I caught you, didn’t I?” He sighs. “I wanted to bring you a present. You deserve it, you’re so good for me. But it would’ve made ‘em suspicious. So, I just want you to know. Naomi won’t touch you again. She won’t touch _anyone_.” His laughter is soft against Castiel’s ear, and something fills him that’s fear and joy and terror and gratitude, and he can feel something rise thick in his throat.

“You...you killed _Naomi_?” He just barely chokes it out.

Dean leans back, looks at him with eyes narrowed. “I thought you’d be happy. I did it for you, you know. Wanted to bring you her head.” He says the last bit softly. Sweetly.

“Dean. They’ll kill you!” 

“Shh...little bird. They don’t know it’s me. She was the one consorting with that fucking rat Crowley. I told, you didn’t I? I knew he was up to something. Trading secrets. I did everyone a favor, taking her out. The angels, the demons. But, understand, I didn’t do it for them. I did it for you. No one hurts you but me. Got it?”

Castiel shivers, an odd mix of anticipation, gratitude, fear. “Yes, Dean. Thank you.”

Dean unhooks Castiel’s hands from where the cuffs are looped and secured, kisses him softly, presses against him until he can feel the cold wet press of Naomi’s blood on his chest. He should feel...something. She was cruel to him, but she was his kin, his sister in arms. 

Instead, he’s fiercely glad. Relieved.

_If only you were worthy of more, Castiel. I want you to be. I just don’t know what Michael sees in you. Hold still, now, it’ll only hurt for a moment...._

He laughs, suddenly, softly, turns his face into Dean’s, opens his hands as far as they’ll go while cuffed together, and he places them against Dean’s chest, presses his lips into Dean’s throat. He’s chained and trapped and everything hurts, and for the first time in centuries, he feels free.

“Thank you,” he whispers, and Dean runs a hand up his spine. Castiel imagines it spreading blood there, in his hair, on his shoulders, his chest, imagines himself painted with it just as Dean is. “Thank you.”

Says it with his voice, his tongue, tasting the sharpness of her blood on Dean’s neck, presses his face where it’s still wet on Dean’s shirt, tastes it on Dean’s clothes as he bends down and opens his mouth above Dean’s belt. Finds himself on his knees and it feels right. God has never once killed for him. Never done anything but punish and chastise from afar.

Dean’s hand is in his hair, stroking and then tightening. “Show me, angel. Show me how grateful you are.”

Castiel unbuckles Dean’s belt with shaking fingers and worships.

* * *

**Castiel: September, 1996**

The conversation has turned to humans, as it so often does.

“I always thought there was good in them,” Castiel offers carefully. Dean accepts these things from him more often now, but there’s always a chance he’s read him wrong.

Dean looks at him, eyes narrowed.

“You wouldn’t think it was a bad view for an angel to have. I mean, there’s evil there, sure,” Castiel says, strengthened by Dean’s silence. “But good, too. They’re not simple like that - one or the other. They have a choice to make. We don’t, but they do.”

Dean smiles a crooked smile, expression calculating. “You ever tell your bosses that theory? Free will and all that?”

Castiel looks away. “They didn’t like it.”

Dean chuckles. “I bet they didn’t. You telling them it didn’t take Lucifer to feed anyone a fucking apple.” He changes the subject abruptly. “You ever talk to God? Sit down with the man and have a little chat?”

Castiel shakes his head, no.

“I’ve never seen Lucifer. The great ‘I Am.’ Never seen him. I tried, early on. I wanted to talk to him about the bullshit deal I got, how Azazel and Crowley tried to weasel out of our deal. Then about getting out from under Alistair. But he was never ‘available.’ They’re like a bedtime story, aren’t they? Our great and terrible leaders, hidden somewhere behind the curtain. Wizards, both of ‘em, and probably nothing like the line we’re sold. You think?”

Castiel meets his eyes and it’s one of those rare, odd moments where he feels like they understand each other completely. Where they stand on the same level, even though he’s the one in chains. “I think there’s a lot they don’t tell us,” he admits.

* * *

**Castiel: January, 1997**

Dean is pacing again. “I know it’s Hell,” he growls, “But there have to be _some_ rules, right? You can’t just go around consorting with angels and everything’s forgiven, but somehow, _somehow_ Crowley’s got them convinced that it was for the right reasons, that he’s still firmly on the side of Hell, and they’re all up his ass like he’s the best-”

The door to the room comes down in a blast of rubble, and Dean grabs the angel blade from just outside the wards as four demons stride in.

“Crowley says ‘hello,’ Dean,” the first one says. They’re armed and ready for battle. They look over, black eyes taking Castiel in hungrily - like he’s meat, a game, meant to be taken apart. Like Dean did, in the beginning. 

“We’re here for your head, but he might take a trade, one angel for another,” the demon offers. “Though yours isn’t as pretty as Naomi.”

“Crowley,” Dean scoffs. “If he’s got such a hard on for me, why didn’t he come himself? The four of you - kind of an insult, honestly.”

The demon smiles. “Oh, we’re just here to ask nicely. Boys?”

More file in behind him. They spread along the walls, moving closer to the circle where he’s trapped, and Castiel shrinks back. They’re going to die here.

“Your choices are to pledge yourself to Crowley or die with the angel. You really want to die for some feathered asshole?”

Dean snickers. “After almost a century? Danny boy, i know him better than I know you _or_ your boss. I like him better, too.”

The movement is too quick to see, Castiel’s at the wrong angle to understand what happens, but suddenly the angel blade is flashing at the doorway and Dean is getting pushed back, and Castiel feels a rush of terror. He pulls desperately at the cuffs he hasn’t fought in decades, feels them stretch under his frantic thrashing. The warding will hold him, too, even if he’s able to get the cuffs off, but he doesn’t want to die trussed up. He wants to at least pretend he has a fighting chance. 

He doesn’t want to watch Dean die.

Dean is backing into the circle, heels scuffing the wards in a way that seems deliberate. He’s fighting with his dagger and the angel blade, and their sides align, Dean’s body against his. He’s close enough that Castiel can hear Dean’s breath coming harsh as he thrusts and punches. There’s the crackle of demons dying in their vessels, the low sounds of pain as Dean is sliced open, more groans and hisses as he returns the favor.

Dean takes a precious moment to slide the angel blade along one of the cuffs, freeing Castiel to pull his hands down from where he’s hung. Dean’s knuckles brush the collar as he turns back and the sharp bite of it’s magic retracts. It falls to the floor, allowing Castiel’s Grace to flare weakly, enough that he might actually survive the battle.

Something changes in Castiel. Something old and worn and rusted breaks open, and he is no longer an observer - remembers what it is to take action. To engage an enemy.

His body creaks as he bends to burn the demon out of the body on the floor. He grabs a fallen knife and spins back to find another demon charging him. His muscles are atrophied despite all attempts his Grace has made, but underneath he’s still a warrior. He moves to the side, feels another demon’s knife slice and glance off his rib, and smashes an elbow back. It takes effort to focus all his reduced Grace into his palm, but the memory returns as he burns the demon away. He lets the vessel fall across the warding and the circle is broken.

Dean is across the room fighting another two demons, and Castiel has more converging on him. The door is still open. 

He’s ten feet from that door, there are three demons in front of him with black eyes and fierce blades, but none of that matters.

He’s free.

_He’s free._

Somewhere, the idea has lost its meaning. Freedom feels terrifying and odd.

He kills the demons with the pent up fury of years - pain and anguish and fear, enough to drive into each of them. They die screaming and it feels _good._ Satisfying. Clean. Like, finally, he’s able to give someone what they _deserve._

When Castiel turns to kill the demons behind him, he finds them already bleeding out, angel blade nearby. Dean is nowhere to be found.

Cas smiles softly as he looks at the chaos around him. They’re dead. All of them. They’d offered Dean a trade, and he’d rejected their offer.

Heaven has turned its back on Castiel. 

Now, Dean has turned his back on Hell.

* * *

Dean hasn’t gone far; Castiel finds him hiding in a homeless shelter nearby. He waits for Dean to step out and then pushes him into the alley next door.

Castiel doesn’t want witnesses. However it plays out, it’s between them, now.

Castiel sets his angel blade against Dean’s throat, unsure if he can use it. Even if he’s wrong. Even if it’s Dean or him. “You could have let them kill me. Why didn’t you?”

The demon stiffens. “You’re mine. No one takes what’s mine.”

“You made enemies today.”

Dean shakes his head. “None I didn’t have before. Just have a better sense of it, now. They never liked me down there. I wasn’t real big on taking orders.” He looks at Cas like he’s weighing something. “Not like you.”

The demon’s eyes meet his, flicker across his face. Searching. Castiel wonders what he sees.

Dean sighs and his body goes soft. “I’m glad it’s you, little bird.” His voice is quiet. Gentle, even. He lifts his chin, offering himself, and Castiel feels a prickle of something hot run up his spine. Power. This is what power feels like. 

He smiles at the heat of it. He could get used to this.

But Dean is right. He was built for taking orders. He was built to be _part_ of something.

Castiel sets the angel blade down beside him and takes the folded leather collar from his waistband. 

Dean’s eyes narrow but Castiel ignores him and spreads his fingers over the warding on the collar. There’s a crack and a hiss as his Grace breaks through and the sigils glow bright and then fade, leaving the inlays dulled but intact. The warding magic is gone, the collar no longer a cage, but a symbol.

A promise.

“Dean?” he asks softly. He kneels slowly and holds the collar on his open palms, like an offering to an old God. Waits for the understanding to reach those green eyes.

Dean takes the collar and searches his face as if it’s a trick. And in some ways, perhaps, it is. Castiel is not inferior to the demon. But he is beholden. Dean is the only being now that knows him. That _wants_ him. 

Dean seals the collar around his neck and touches his cheek reverently. “My little bird,” he whispers.

“Yes,” Castiel says, touching the collar where it sits against his throat, soft and oddly pain free. He presses his forehead into the demon’s thigh.

_His_ demon.

He sighs in relief when Dean’s fingers smooth his hair. 

“Yes, Dean. Yours.”


End file.
